POV Jaxson
The bass at Velvet throbs through my chest like a second heartbeat, synthetic and hollow, keeping time with the emptiness that's been gnawing at me since I watched Harper's taillights disappear into the rain three nights ago.
The VIP section sprawls around me in leather and low lighting, populated by women whose names I haven't bothered to learn.
The brunette pressed against my left side has dark hair that cascades past her shoulders and olive skin that catches the neon strobes like burnished copper. She's everything Harper isn't—warm-toned where Harper is porcelain, curves where Harper is angles, bold where Harper is controlled.
I hate that even surrounded by women designed to make men forget their problems, all I can think about is a blonde who slapped me twice in a parking lot and drove away wearing another man's ring.
"You're very quiet tonight." The brunette traces a finger along my jaw, her accent thick with Eastern European vowels. "Most men who buy champagne this expensive want to talk about themselves."
"Most men don't have as much to regret." I take a sip of whiskey that costs more than her dress, letting the burn remind me I'm still capable of feeling things that aren't Harper-shaped. "What's your name?"
"Alina." Her smile reveals teeth too perfect to be natural. "And yours?"
"Jaxson."
The confusion that flickers across her face is immediate and familiar. Her brow furrows, lips moving silently as her two functioning brain cells struggle to reconcile sounds with spelling.
"Like the city? Jackson?"
"With an X." I drain the rest of my glass. "J-A-X-S-O-N."
Her eyes light up like I've performed a magic trick. "Ah, very unique. Very American."
Harper's voice echoes through my memory: Better than your revolving door of Italian models who probably can't spell your name.
The irony is sitting in my lap, wearing too much perfume and not enough fabric, proving my stepsister right with every mispronounced syllable. Romanian, I note from her accent—because the universe apparently finds my Popescu troubles hilarious.
Alina's hand lands on my knee and slides north with practiced confidence. I let her touch me, hoping to feel anything other than Harper's absence.
I don't.
Her fingers might as well belong to furniture. My nerve endings remain stubbornly focused on the ghost sensation of Harper's palms shoving against my chest, Harper's breath catching when I pinned her against that car.
Alina must sense my distance because she leans closer, her mouth finding the corner of mine in what she clearly intends as a kiss.
I turn my head away before she can deepen it, my body rejecting the wrong lips. Through the strobing lights and press of bodies, I see Harper's face superimposed over every woman in this club.
"Don't." The word comes out harsh enough to make Alina recoil.
I check my watch. Vincent is forty-five minutes late.
"What kind of business brings a man like you to a club like this?"Alina asks.
The question carries more curiosity than it should, but I'm too tired to analyze whether she's genuinely interested or fishing for details she can sell to someone else. Velvet caters to a specific clientele—men with money and secrets, women with beauty and ambition, and the occasional journalist looking for scandals among the elite.
"There." Alina gestures toward the entrance with her champagne flute. "Your business has arrived, I think."
The man who navigates through the crowd moves with the controlled stillness of someone trained to blend into shadows and emerge only when violence is required. His suit is tailored but unremarkable, designed to be forgotten, and his eyes scan the VIP section before landing on me.
Vincent. Popescu's most trusted representative. The cosmic joke completes itself.
I extract myself from Alina's grip and reach for my wallet, peeling off several hundred-dollar bills. "Ladies, the evening has been delightful, but I have business to attend to. The champagne is paid for through midnight."
Alina's pout deepens, but she recognizes the dismissal. The other women scatter, collecting their glasses and their dignity as they migrate toward more promising prospects across the VIP section.
"You're late." I don't bother standing as Vincent slides into the booth across from me. "Constantin's patience is apparently contagious."
"Mr. Popescu sends his regards and his displeasure." Vincent's accent is thicker than Alina's, his English careful and deliberate. "You were expected in Bucharest four days ago."
"I had family obligations that couldn't be postponed." The excuse sounds weak even to my own ears. "The discrepancies Daniel mentioned can be explained with the proper documentation."
"Mr. Popescu is not interested in documentation." Vincent's gaze follows the retreating women with cold assessment before returning to me. "He is interested in loyalty, Mr. Reid. And your absence suggests your loyalties have shifted."
"My loyalties are exactly where they've always been—with profitable business arrangements that benefit everyone involved." I hold his stare without flinching. "The property valuations were adjusted to account for market fluctuations. Nothing more."
"Market fluctuations." He repeats the phrase like it tastes bitter. "Mr. Popescu's accountants have a different interpretation. They believe approximately two million euros have been redirected through channels that do not lead back to Bucharest."
The accusation lands with the weight of a death sentence, because that's exactly what it is. Constantin Popescu doesn't send representatives across an ocean for conversations that end with handshakes.
"That's a serious allegation." I keep my voice steady despite the cold spreading through my chest. "One I would be happy to address directly with Constantin, at a time when my current obligations allow for travel."
"Your current obligations." Vincent leans back, studying me with the detachment of a man calculating odds. "This inheritance you're chasing. Your stepfather's estate, yes? The one you share with your stepsister."
The mention of Harper tightens every muscle in my body, though I keep my expression neutral.
"It's strange, Mr. Reid." Vincent's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You made more money in three years with Mr. Popescu than this Boston fortune could ever provide. Yet here you sit, risking your life for what? A house?" He shakes his head slowly. "Mr. Popescu finds it very strange that a man would choose death over leaving his sister."
The word "sister" lands like a slap, reducing everything I feel for Harper to acceptable family ties. Vincent doesn't know. He can't know. To him, this is simply a man making irrational choices over an inheritance he doesn't need.
"The estate has sentimental value." The lie scrapes against my throat. "My stepfather and I had unfinished business."
"Sentimental value." Vincent laughs, the sound devoid of warmth. "You would die for sentiment?" He leans forward, his voice dropping to a murmur that cuts through the bass. "Mr. Popescu thinks perhaps you have lost your mind, Mr. Reid. Or perhaps you are hiding something more valuable than sentiment in that Boston estate."
"There's nothing hidden. Just family complications that require my presence."
"Family." Vincent rises from the booth, buttoning his jacket. "You have one week to resolve your family complications. Mr. Popescu suggests you remember which family has kept you alive and wealthy these past years."
He pauses, straightening his cuffs with the casual menace of a man who has delivered death sentences before.
"Your stepsister. She is very beautiful, yes? It would be unfortunate if Mr. Popescu's disappointment extended to her. Collateral damage is so messy, but sometimes necessary to make a point."
The threat crystallizes in the air between us, sharp and cold as a blade pressed to Harper's throat. My hands clench beneath the table, every instinct screaming to wrap my fingers around Vincent's neck and squeeze until that smug expression disappears forever.
But violence here would only accelerate what Popescu has already set in motion.
"One week," I manage through a jaw locked tight enough to crack teeth. "I understand."